


Nobody

by genevievedarcygranger



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Angels, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Confessions, Couch Cuddles, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Demons, Drinking, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, Established Relationship, Everyone Is Gay, Fallen Angels, First Kiss, Fluff, Good Demons, Historical References, Holding Hands, Hozier References, I Wrote This While Listening to Hozier's Music, Implied Sexual Content, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inspired by a Hozier Song, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Other, POV Crowley (Good Omens), References to Shakespeare, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Shakespeare Quotations, Shakespearean Sonnets, Short One Shot, Sleepy Cuddles, Song: Nobody (Hozier), Title from a Hozier Song, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25909018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genevievedarcygranger/pseuds/genevievedarcygranger
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale discuss the relationships that came before their own.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	Nobody

_"But I've had no love like your love from nobody._

_I'd be appalled if I saw you ever try to be a saint._

_I wouldn't fall for someone I thought couldn't misbehave._

_But I want you to know that I've had no love like your love."_

\- "Nobody," _Hozier_

* * *

The subject would have never come up if they weren't into their third bottle of Merlot for the night. It wasn't like Crowley went fishing for information on the angel's love life either. He hadn't meant to ply him with wine. The night started like any other they spent together in the days after the Almost-Apocalypse. He took Aziraphale out to dinner, on this occasion somewhere fancy where the food was in generous portions and the chef was liberal with the butter. In short, a place hard to find, but Aziraphale definitely had a nose for these kinds of places, so Crowley indulged him as he always did. They split a dessert – a marvelous piece of chocolate cake. The angel had the lion's share and Crowley mostly pushed the cake through its ganache on the plate, watching Aziraphale wrap his lips around the fork.

After more than a couple of centuries together, he and the angel had finally taken their relationship to the next level since they were free from the confines of their respective offices. By the next level, that really just meant that they had admitted that they loved each other, but they haven't done more than hold hands on strolls through the park or Crowley pulling out Aziraphale's chair and holding doors. Of course, Crowley wanted more, he blamed that on his demon-nature, but he was going to take it slow for the angel's sake.

Crowley's mistake was thinking that Aziraphale was inexperienced. Apparently, he was anything but.

"Wot, you mean to tell me," Crowley slurred, too plastered to really work up any sense of anger. He wasn't the jealous type anyway. No, what he really felt was incredulity. "You mean to tell me that you and that Shakespeare bloke… really?"

Aziraphale blushed impossibly redder, more than he already was from the Merlot or from the warmth of his lit fireplace. "It was after the miracle for _Hamlet_ , dear, when he found out that you and I were just…business partners at the time."

Dark eyebrows halfway up his forehead, Crowley sputtered, "So how many sonnets are after your likeness, angel?"

"Oh pish-posh! He never wrote any sonnets for me!" Aziraphale protested, though he was smiling through it. He flapped his hands as if that could shoo away the revelation, and despite his tipsiness, he managed to avoid knocking over their wine glasses.

"I don't believe you." Crowley threw himself out of his chair, stalking up and down the carpet, swaying along like his snake-like nature. "I remember one sonnet…let's see if I know it well enough," he muttered to himself before he started mechanically reciting, " _Two loves I have of comfort and despair, which like two spirits do suggest me still the better angel is a man right fair, the worser spirit a woman colored ill."_ Snapping his fingers, Crowley turned on his heel and pointed at Aziraphale's face. "You're the fair youth, innit?"

A little more unamused now, Aziraphale pushed away Crowley's finger. "Not technically." Fluttering his fingers anxiously, he explained, "There really was a fair youth, but you know, infatuations don't last that long for Shakespeare. So maybe…one or two sonnets are about me, but," abruptly he broke off, "Oh, it doesn't matter! He was nobody in that respect. I admired his work much more than, than anything else."

"Methinks the angel protests too much," Crowley mused, enjoying how worked up Aziraphale had gotten.

"Oh, shut up, dear," Aziraphale said without any real heat. He caught Crowley by the hand and urged him to sit down again, only this time having Crowley join him on the couch. Once he was sitting, he did not release his hand. "Don't pretend that you didn't dabble with humans that way during your time, Crowley."

"Hm? Oh, not really, no." With his empty hand, Crowley reached for his wine glass and then hesitated as he tried to remember which was his. Figuring that that didn't really matter anymore, he picked up the one with the most Merlot and took a fortifying swallow. When he looked up at the angel again, Aziraphale was staring at him.

"Don't tell me that you – a demon – has never…. well, never?" Aziraphale outright gawked. "I thought you had a hand in some of those kinds of deeds, though? At least Old Testament. Samson and Delilah? David and Bathsheba? Just like with Eve."

Crowley placed his wine glass aside and chose to examine his nails instead. He could feel the heat in his face, to his chagrin. "Well, I never outright said anything so lewd as that. Other demons may have thrived on lust that way, but I was never like those other demons, my angel. Really, I just…suggested things, and most of those humans came up with the rest on their own. They're a clever lot. I've found that that means their best cruelty is entirely original."

As soon as he admitted as such, Crowley immediately regretted killing the mood. It wasn't like he was incapable of feeling lust, but he had a complicated relationship with it. For one, he was a demon, but lust was never his specialty as he said. He would never just find a human to dally with for the sake of scratching an itch, and the few demons who did reproduce found the offspring a menace to deal with. For another, Crowley has always been…regretful for his actions that warranted damnation. After Christ, when Crowley found that God's forgiveness did not extend to demons, Crowley found other ways to try and make up for his past behavior. He tried to follow the rules where he could. Abstinence seemed to be the easiest one.

Awkwardly, Aziraphale broke the silence between them with an apology. "Oh, dear. I'm sorry for my assumptions. I just thought that you were always so…charming." The tips of his ears went red. "Forget I said anything."

Reclining on the couch, Crowley felt his heartbeat stutter in his chest at the compliment, but he contained his smile. "That's alright, angel. I understand. I assumed you were always so innocent." He brushed his fingertips against the angel's cheek, rosier than the Merlot, hotter than the fire. "But here you were, playing muse for the humans all these years."

Looing up at Crowley through his eyelashes, Aziraphale bit his lip. "Only the really interesting ones," he admitted haltingly. "I never intended to. It just seemed to happen that way while I was–"

"Wot, while you were spreading the Almighty's love?" Crowley interrupted. His hand settled more firmly on Aziraphale's face, palm cupping his chubby cheek. "You're a cheeky little angel."

"Are you jealous?" Aziraphale asked.

"Jealous of your dalliances? Well, I hardly no all of them, and I'm sure there are so many," Crowley teased. "That Shakespeare fellow never caught my eye."

Pouting slightly, Aziraphale pushed his cheek against Crowley's palm. All the while, their other hands remained clasped between them, balancing on Aziraphale's knee. "That's not what I meant, dear."

It dawned on Crowley instantly. "Of course, my angel, but then again… Well, I've waited this long for you. We have nothing but time together now. Just you and me against the world."

"So romantic." Aziraphale kissed Crowley's palm, inhaling the freshness of his skin. Crowley was always meticulously clean. "And I should know romance very well from my experience."

"Your experience with whom?" Crowley was too curious for his own good. "Who were my competitors for your hand?"

Pulling away, Aziraphale had to think before he could answer. As he did, he avoided Crowley's eyes. "Shakespeare, as you well know. Umm… that Wilde fellow, too."

"That one I suspected."

Ignoring Crowley, Aziraphale continued. "Da Vinci. Plato. Umm…one of the Roman emperors, I forget his name. I didn't like him much. Oh, Bryon! His work wasn't exactly the best either. I much prefer Wilde, his was so lovely. Hmm… I can't really think of any others that you would distinctly know by name." He shrugged and then finally turned back to Crowley.

Crowley just stared at him. "You know why I always suspected Wilde? Well, it almost felt like I knew him from his works, though we never met."

Aziraphale ducked his head. "You might have come up in conversation once or twice in my time with him."

"Really? I must've made quite the impression on you already." Using the tips of his fingers, Crowley tipped Aziraphale's chin up so they could make eye-contact again. "And here I believed that you never looked at me that way until that nasty bit of business with the Nazis."

In retaliation, Aziraphale gently took Crowley's glasses off and set them aside with the wine glasses. "Oh, I've been infatuated with you for some time, Crowley. I'd say the age of the Romantics. It just took that church business for me to realize it. I'm so stubborn, as you tell me." He stared unflinchingly into Crowley's golden eyes.

"Yes, you really are." Crowley's thumb barely ghosted over Aziraphale's bottom lip. "You know you've played muse for others, too, however unintentionally."

"Really?" Aziraphale could read between the lines. "You talked to others about me, too?"

"Of course, my angel. Michelangelo for one. I convinced him to make a parody of the Sistine Chapel against those men," Crowley boasted. "And maybe the Beatles. I told them they should give Ringo a chance at songwriting. Also, everyone blames Yoko Ono for their break-up, but that was all me."

Aziraphale hummed, familiar only with Michelangelo's name and unsure who the Beatles were. He never much dabbled with musicians. He preferred writers and poets. So, he mentioned the only band he knew through his association with Crowley. "What about Queen? Did you ever mention me to them?"

Now it was Crowley's turn to be flustered. "I never actually got to meet Queen. I did meet Bowie, though, and on one occasion with Bowie, Mick Jagger. Didn't much care for him." Gently, Crowley coaxed Aziraphale to come closer. Despite all the Merlot and the chipper crackles of the fireplace, he still wanted to cuddle on the couch. All the warmth only served to make him pleasantly drowsy after all.

Acquiescing to Crowley's wordless demand, Aziraphale pressed closer until there was no space left between their bodies. In Aziraphale's mind, they were wearing entirely too many clothes, but since he learned of Crowley's experience – or lack thereof – he didn't want to push. He understood why they were going so slow, why Crowley never made a mood. But still, Aziraphale wanted one thing before the end of the night.

"Crowley, dear?" Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley's red hair, his blunt nails scraping through his scalp rhythmically.

"Yes, my angel?" Crowley drawled, basking in the attention.

"Won't you kiss me?"

Crowley's eyes opened and immediately found Aziraphale's blue ones, soft as melted butter. Rather than answering, he slid his fingers along Aziraphale's softened jawline, tipping his face upwards. The grip Aziraphale had on Crowley's hair guided him in for the kiss. When their lips met, they slotted together perfectly, as if they were both well-practiced at kissing each other, as if this wasn't their first time together. Both of them tasted like their dinner and dessert, muted all over from the Merlot. Crowley's nose bumped against Aziraphale's cheekbones. They both forgot to breathe, forgetting that they needed to.

And despite the warmth of Merlot and fire, the love between them burned brightest, yet the kissing never escalated past that.

When they pulled away from each other, they noted their flushed appearance, their swollen lips, their blown-wide pupils, and shyly looked away as they settled back into their embrace with each other. After that, there was no talk of artists' muses or past lovers. They both fell asleep thinking only of each other, the logs in the fireplace popping sparks that could never compare to their long-awaited love.


End file.
